


Emma Ir Abelas

by ergophobia



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 21:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8117566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ergophobia/pseuds/ergophobia
Summary: An account of the Herald of Andraste, Imira of Clan Lavellan, and her leadership of the Inquisition.
(ie sort of a retelling of Inquisition but mostly dealing with a lot of headcanons and side plots and as little rehashing of the game as possible)





	

It was still dark out when Imira awoke. Not far off she could hear the ocean waves beating against the shore. In a few weeks the clan would start the journey to their winter camp in the Vimmark mountains, leaving the rocky coastline they called home for the warmer seasons far behind. Already the autumn chill had begun to set in, a thin layer of frost greeting Imira as she stepped outside the warmth of her aravel. Yawning, she went to start the camp's fire, the logs sparking as she dropped them into the firepit before obediently catching flame as she hung the dented kettle for her tea. 

“I hope you're not planning on flashin' your magic around like that once you leave.” Keeper Deshanna had a face like a fig that had been left out in the sun a few weeks too long, and the personality to match, though right now she looked significantly less formidable, bundled up in at least two heavy wool blankets as she took a seat near the now roaring fire. 

“I'll be careful,” Imira promised, measuring out leaves for two cups of tea. “I didn't think you'd be up this early,” she told her.

“Couldn't sleep,” Deshanna admitted gruffly, which for her was tantamount to breaking down crying. Forty years as Keeper of Clan Lavellan hadn't helped her develop much of a softer side. She was quiet as Imira finished fixing their tea. “It's not too late to change your mind,” she said as she was handed her cup. “You're more useful here than off spying on the damn humans. And that Soren of your's could use the experience, or Lenneth if they-”

“No,” Imira cut in forcefully. “I've already packed my bags, I'm going” she said more gently, taking a sip of her tea.

“You're the First, your place is here,” Deshanna argued. “You're not some young apprentice who can go running off as they please, this clan relies on you just as much as they do me, if not more. I'm old, Imira,” she said, her face suddenly tired in a way that Imira rarely saw. It was almost worrying. “What if something happens to me? What if something happens to you?”

“Nothing is going to happen,” Imira reassured her. “The Conclave is being called to make peace, not start a war.” Deshanna scoffed at that. “And I'm sure you'll be around to give everyone in the clan a hard time for many years to come,” she added with a small smile.

“Watch it,” Deshanna warned her, back to her old sour self. “You come back the first sign of trouble, right? Keep your head down and don't go risking your neck for anyone. I know how you can be.”

“It's called being nice, Deshanna,” Imira told her.

“Being stupid, more like,” she scoffed. “You leaving soon, then?” she asked with the smallest hint of worry as Imira stood up, finishing her tea. 

“I'll eat on the road, I don't want to waste daylight,” Imira said, mindful of the dim light on the horizon. “I was going to leave an offering at the shore and then head out,” she explained. 

“If you've got time to wade around in the water, you've got time to eat a proper meal,” Deshanna said, standing up. 

“But-”  
“No but,” Deshanna said, hobbling over to the cooking supplies. “You go say your prayers, I'll make you some eggs. 'Least I can do before you run off to muck around by yourself for months on end.”

“Should I pray for a safe journey or that I'll survive your cooking?” Imira asked her with only a little sarcasm in her voice. Deshanna was not one of the clan's best cooks, and only did it when she was pressed to or, apparently, when she was distraught over her First leaving and didn't have the emotional range to show it otherwise. 

“Don't get smart with me, girl, I was cooking you eggs before you knew to dress yourself,” Deshanna snapped as Imira snickered on her way back to the aravel. The Keeper's profanity-laden muttering about ungrateful this and her poor back drifted across the camp as Imira took a small bundle of lotus clippings and headed down the rocky cliff path to the sea. 

The water was cold when she finally reached the waves, but it didn't bother her. She'd grown up with this sea, knew every rock along these shores, where to dive to harvest the best pearls, how to judge the tides. The ocean was as revered among Clan Lavellan as any of their gods, and so it was here they came to pray to them. There was one small cove here in particular Imira liked to go to, quiet and sheltered from the rest of the beach. She waded out up to her waist, quietly reciting familiar prayers to each of the gods. Mythal for a clear path, Andruil for swiftness, Dirthamen to move unnoticed through the human's lands. Sylaise she saved for last, and to her she offered the same prayers she did every day. To protect others, to act with compassion instead of anger, and to heal those that were hurt. They were the tenets of the Vir'Atishan, the path she had devoted herself to, and with each prayer she released one of the dawn lotus blossoms and watched it wash out to sea. Sylaise might not answer her prayers, but the guidance of her teachings was enough for Imira. 

The sun was rising just above the horizon as Imira left the cove and climbed back up the cliff to camp. She could hear the chatter of other clan members now, a few of the other usual early risers now up and bickering with Deshanna over her cooking. At Imira's approach, they all dropped what they were doing and she found herself swarmed with well wishes and advice as she was fussed over and sat down with a plate of slightly charred eggs and smoked fish. This sort of attention is what she'd been hoping to avoid by rising so early, she could only hope to head out before the whole clan woke up. It'd be noon by the time she'd be able to pry herself away. 

“Really, I should get going,” she insisted, finishing her meal and handing the plate back to Deshanna who immediately handed it over to the nearest person to deal with. 

“Go get breakfast started, we've still got a clan to take care of,” Deshanna ordered them with a sour look as Imira stood up. “Well, get your things and head out, if you're going to go,” she huffed before herding the rest of the group away to begin the day's work.

“She'll be fine,” said a voice at Imira's shoulder. 

“She's a grown woman, Tisha, of course she'll be fine!” Deshanna snapped at the clan's Hearthmistress, and Imira's closest friend. Tisha made a face at her. Everyone in the clan was used to the Keeper's temper, like a particularly cranky old dog that always barked but rarely bit. 

“Honestly I think you could use a few days away from her,” Tisha added lowly when Deshanna was out of earshot.

“Tisha!” Imira snickered, giving her friend a slight shove. She was one of the few people in the clan who had supported her decision to go to the Conclave, though that might have had something to do with the fact that Tisha's own daughter Lenneth had originally been one of the candidates for the mission. 

“What? You deserve a break,” Tisha said as they walked back to the aravel.

“This isn't a vacation,” Imira reminded her.

“Close enough,” Tisha insisted. “You get to see new places-”

“Filled with Templars.”

“Meet new people-”

“Who might try to kill me.”

“You don't have to cook for anyone or clean or deal with kids-”

“I don't mind doing any of those things,” Imira argued, frowning. 

“I know you don't, lethallin, which is why you're going to be a wonderful Keeper someday, but for now why don't you enjoy what's probably your last chance to get out and live a little,” Tisha said as they reached the door of the aravel. “Oh, and-” she took a small leather pouch out of her pocket and took out a few silvers before leaning in close. “If there's a new Hard in Hightown book, can you pick it up for me?” she asked lowly, pressing the money into Imira's palm.

“I don't know why you read that trash,” Imira said, but tucked the money into her robes nonetheless. 

“Says the woman with a copy of The Serpent's Consort stuffed under her mattress,” Tisha teased as Imira hurriedly shushed her. 

“Go tend the fire,” she said, giving Tisha a shove as she continued to giggle. She'd have to remember to hide that somewhere more discreet before she left. “I have to- Soren!” she frowned as she stepped into the aravel, finding the young mage fully dressed, hurriedly packing their bag. They gave her a sheepish look as Tisha left Imira to deal with her child. 

“You're not coming,” Imira said firmly, crossing her arms.

“But mamae, why not?” Soren demanded, despite how many times they'd had this argument over the past few weeks. Truthfully, they were hardly a child anymore. At twenty-seven years old, they were a skilled mage and a responsible member of the clan, on their way to one day becoming Keeper themself. “You said you didn't want me traveling on my own, but if I'm with you-”

“It won't be any less dangerous,” Imira said. “Da'len,” she sighed, crossing the few feet between them and pulling them into a tight hug. “I know you want to see the world beyond the clan, but please trust me when I say there is nothing there, for any of us,” she told them. “There is only pain and grief to be found outside of this valley.”

“There is pain and grief here too, we can't hide from it,” Soren argued. “I can't stay here forever, at least let me see for myself. You're always arguing about how we have to think beyond just the clan, but you don't want any of us to actually go beyond it.”

“Not while there's a war against mages on the horizon,” Imira said as Soren immediately began to sulk. “Look, I'm not saying you can never leave the valley,” she relented with a sigh. “But at least until we know what all this means for us, please just... give me the peace of mind knowing you're safe.”

“... Alright,” they said, still looking disappointed, but with enough sincerity she wasn't too worried they'd try to sneak off and follow her as soon as she left. “You're leaving now?” they asked.

“Very soon,” she said as she began to pull on her travel robes. They were plain and made of a rough wool fabric that made her look unremarkable, something she hoped would keep her from catching anyone's attention. Her sword was strapped to a belt hidden under her heavy skirts. “I won't be gone that long,” she reassured them as she pulled on her pack, along with two small wicker baskets filled with goods for trade. If she was traveling all the way to the city, she might as well get some supplies the clan needed while she was there.

“Tisha said she'd take over teaching the children, so you don't need to worry about that,” she said as she headed towards the door. “But remember that you need to make the salve for Havish's cough and we're running low on spindleweed so-”

“Mamae, I know,” Soren said. She'd gone over everything with them repeatedly over the past week, and at least four times just last night. She knew Soren could handle everything, but she still worried, like any mother would. 

Imira took one last look around the aravel, herbs drying in the rafters, books and small jars of poultices and remedies lining the shelves on the wall, her bed neatly made up in the alcove on the far end with Soren's rats nest of blankets and scrolls on the platform above it. 

“And remember to clean while I'm gone,” she warned them as she turned to head out the door, taking her favorite scarf off it's hook before she stepped outside. Deshanna was waiting for her, a small cloth bundle tucked under her arm.

“Here,” she said, shoving it into Imira's hands. “There's a few pears, some pickled cabbage, and Farand sent along some herbed cheese and bread. He says you take care on the road and watch out for bandits since they've been having trouble with them on the east road lately.” Farand was the blacksmith and unnoficial leader of the small fishing village that stood half a morning's walk along the beach from their camp, small enough they didn't mind relying on a Dalish clan for trade or company in the remote valley, and both sides made an exception to any predjudices they might have towards elves or humans for each other. 

“I'll be careful, I promise,” Imira said.

“There's also ten sovereigns and a few silvers in there,” Deshanna said. “I've been saving up-”

“Oh, really, I couldn't,” Imira said, touched by the offer. It had to be all of Deshanna's savings.

“And you can pay me back when you return,” Deshanna finished.

“You're so sweet,” she said sarcastically, tying the bundle onto her pack. But as ornery as the old woman could be, she'd still miss her while she was gone, and so to Deshanna's surprise, the Keeper found herself caught in a tight hug. “Take care of yourself while I'm gone, mammae,” Imira said to her.

“Don't you start worrying about me now,” Deshanna said, though her tone was noticably softer. Her relationship with Imira hadn't always been as amicable as it was now, but she loved her daughter, and hugged her back tightly. “You best head out now while I'm still in the mood to let you,” she said, pulling away, her face back to it's customary scowl. 

“Make sure to write back if you can,” Soren said, coming up behind Imira for a hug goodbye, still pouting over being made to stay behind. “And bring me back a present,” they added hopefully. “I heard you can get anything in Kirkwall-”

“Anything that wasn't blown up or sacked by Templars,” Deshanna added harshly. “You keep your head low there,” she warned Imira, walking her to the edge of camp as Soren wandered off forlornly to where breakfast was being made over by the fire. “I had a premonition,” Deshanna said lowly as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Mammae, please,” Imira frowned. Deshanna had always had a flare for fortune-telling, though most of her visions were so convoluted it was hard to tell whether they were true premonitions or mere extravagance on Deshanna's part. Over the years, Imira had learned to put little stock in them. “Whatever it was, I'm sure it had nothing to do with this,” she insisted.

“I know what I saw,” Deshanna said. “And if you don't want to hear it, all I'll say is watch out for wolves. And swords. And dragons.”

“What would I do without you around to advise me?” Imira said, earning a very stern look from Deshanna.

“I don't care if you believe me or not, just be careful” she said. “And I want you to take this,” she said, placing her staff in Imira's hands. It was a very old staff, heavy with magic and carved of twisted ashen wood, passed down through more generations than anyone could recall. Imira had known she'd inherit it one day, but expected it to be on Deshanna's deathbed. Whatever Deshanna had saw, she suddenly took far more seriously, if it had prompted her to leave her with this. 

“I can't take this” Imira said, trying to hand it back, but Deshanna refused.

“That piece of wood has been watching over our line since before the Dales fell, it'll keep you safe,” she insisted. “I'd feel better knowing it was with you.”

“I... alright,” Imira said dutifully, handing her own plain oaken staff over to Deshanna. Looking over, she saw the clan members over at the fire looking her way expectantly. Tisha had her hand on an indigant Soren's shoulder, and waved enthusiastically. 

“Get a move on already,” she yelled, teasing. “We'll all be here when you get back.”

“I'm going!” Imira shouted back at her, making a face. “Behave yourselves, all of you! But especially you, Soren,” she added, and could hear the 'ugh' they made all the way across camp. She waved one last time and a chorus of 'goodbye's and 'good luck's followed her as she headed to the path at the edge of the trees with Deshanna.

“Dareth shiral,” Deshanna said as they reached the trees. Staring down the path, Imira felt suddenly overwhelmed by the fact she was leaving, and as much as she promised to return quickly, her journey was a dangerous one and nothing could be certain. She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and turned to see a rare smile on her mother's face. “Whatever comes to pass, you will make our people proud, da'len, same as you make me proud.”

“By the creators, I think a demon has taken hold of you,” Imira said, laughing as her mother's face twisted back into it's usual scowl.

“I try bein' nice and this is the thanks I get,” she huffed, but didn't resist when Imira gave her another rare hug. “You and that smart mouth of yours better watch out, they won't take so kindly to it out there,” she said, frowning as she pulled away.

“I'll miss you too,” Imira said fondly.

“Well I can't miss you if you don't get going,” Deshanna said, and with a shove that from anyone else could have been described as playful, Imira was off.

It was a two day journey out of the valley, mostly through a series of connecting paths that ran through the forest. There was one that headed into the western part of the mountains that was mostly used by bandits or merchants with a bad sense of direction, another that led from the fishing village to the main road in the east, and countless other small winding trails that led only to ruins or coves and were far too easy to get lost on for anyone unfamiliar with them. It was one of these that Imira spent the morning walking, passing trees she had climbed as a child and through clearings she regularly went to gather herbs. By the time she sat down to rest for lunch, she hardly felt as if she had left home. She had some of the bread and cheese with a little bit of the honey she had brought for herself, filled up her water skin at the stream that ran near the path, and continued on her way feeling quite good about her journey despite it's grim purpose. 

By nightfall, the path was less familiar, and she found herself among trees she had only passed a few times before. The clan's winter camp was far up in the mountains, to the north, and she was headed east, towards Kirkwall. It was a bit of a gamble, as Wycome or Ostwick were closer to catch a ship from, but now tensions were high all across Thedas and there were bound to be Templars looking to target any rogue mages they might find. At least with Kirkwall they wouldn't be expecting them to march straight in to the middle of the mess, and besides, there was a friend she wanted to check in on there. If she moved swiftly enough, she'd reach it by the end of the week, and find a ship to take her to Ferelden. Once she reached the main road here she might find a caravan of merchants she could latch onto but for now she was on her own, which was fine enough during the day with the sun out and the birds singing and the wind in the trees. At night, she found herself uneasy. 

Imira was used to living with the clan, the sound of muffled conversation around the campfire or Soren shifting in their bunk above her as she drifted to sleep. Out here alone, the isolation was unsettling. She slept close to the fire, her hand going for her staff in a panic every time she heard a branch rustle or a twig snap. When she did finally fall asleep, the dreams were unsettling. Wolves chased her through a forest as it burned, faces of the dead watching her through the trees. She was grateful to wake up and see the sun beginning to peak over the horizon. 

She packed up her things quickly, moving at a swifter pace than she had planned. The day was bright and clear, but last night's dreams had put her on edge. When the sun began to set, she reluctantly stopped to camp. The main road was close now, but she was tired and didn't want to risk summoning a light to travel by. Despite the roaring fire she built, the darkness felt suffocating. 

“Is someone there?” she demanded after an hour trying to fend off the feeling that something was watching her. Of course no one answered, but the sound of her own voice after so much silence gave her some comfort. The feeling didn't leave though, and she knew better than to chock it up to mere nerves. There was something out there, she was sure of it. Bandits, hopefully, or maybe some kind of animal. She could deal with both easily, but if it was... something else. 

There were tales of things lurking in the deep woods, ones you told around the campfire to creep each other on cold nights, or let slip among the humans to keep merchants from traveling too close to your camps. But then there were also the things you saw lurking in the shadows in old ruins, hovering on the edges of the trees in places no one had walked for ages. No one living, at least. Imira had a few encounters like that over the years, all of them from so long ago they were hardly more than stories she'd use when she needed to come up with a good scare. She wasn't expecting anything like that so close to home.

“Im....mira....” The voice came shuddering out of the darkness like a cold breeze, barely more than a whisper, but it made her stomach knot. Instintively she reached for her staff.

“Leave this place now, demon,” Imira said forcefully, standing defiantly with her back to the fire as it roared even brighter, throwing it's light into the trees, flames curling around her like a loyal hound protecting it's master. She could just make out a pair of hollow eyes staring back at her from the shadows just beyond. 

A low cackle filled the air, too jittery and unnatural to be human. The fire died low for a moment and in the second it took Imira to will it back to life, the eyes had moved right to the edge of her camp. As the flames erupted, she saw very clearly the figure they belonged to, grey skin stretched too tight across bones that moved both too slow and too fast for anything living, with a grin far too clever for a corpse. Faded vallaslin and tattered robes gave it away as something that had once been Dalish. 

“Halam sahlin!” Imira shouted, lashing out at it. A bright flash of flame erupted from her hand, striking at the place the apparition had been, but it was already gone. She stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, eyes wide as she searched for any sign of it. The forest was dead silent, the only sound coming from the fire crackling behind her. Slowly, her terror faded enough for her senses to return. In a matter of minutes she packed her camp, and hurried back onto the path. 

It took everything she could to keep from breaking into a sprint, glancing into the trees expecting to see those eyes staring back at her again. It was still hours till sunrise, but once she reached the main road she'd be out of the forest, and she hoped that would be enough. The next two hours were harrowing, hiking through what seemed like an endless sea of leaves and shadows, steeling herself every time she heard a twig snap or a breeze roll through that almost sounded like laughter. 

Suddenly she caught a light in the distance, and after a few cautious moments realized it must be campfire, and that the trees were thinning out and she could begin to see open sky beyond them. Whether the fire belonged to bandits or merchants, she didn't care, and rushed forward. She could almost feel the eyes watching her from behind, and could have sworn she felt something catch on the edge of her skirt. Panicked, she broke into a sprint.

“Halt! Who goes there?” Imira broke through the edge of the trees and found herself facing down a pair of armed guards. She stopped, catching her breath and her wits as they tried to make sense of the small elven woman who had just come bursting out of the trees. “What were you running from?” the sharper of the two demanded. 

“B-bandits,” Imira said, quickly deciding not to mention what she had seen in the woods. The guards tensed at her words, glancing back at the camp behind them. Three merchant caravans were pulled a little off the road, stopped for the night.

“Go alert the men,” the man that had spoken before told his companion. The other guard nodded and rushed back to the camp.

“I think I lost them,” Imira cut in quickly, knowing her lie would fall apart if they began any kind of search. “I've been running for hours now, they attacked my camp out of nowhere, I thought I'd be killed for sure,” she told him, letting her voice shake. She was calming down, but if she could earn the sympathy of this guard, she might have a safe place to stay for the night. “My companions, they...” her voice cracked and tears sprung to her eyes as she hid her face in her hands. She must have been convincing enough and far too unassuming for them to suspect her of any treachery. The lie earned her an awkward hand on the shoulder from the guard.

“There there. If there's any bandits we'll deal with them,” he said. At the camp, Imira could see a small squadron of guards assembling before taking posts around the camp. 

“Thank you,” she said tearfully. She was beginning to feel a little guilty about tricking him, but the thought of having to camp alone after what she'd been through pushed her forward. “Please, do you think I could stay at your camp for the night?” she pleaded, batting her eyes delicately. She'd sworn off this sort of things years ago but, well, one last time wouldn't hurt, Sylaise forgive her. 

“Well...” the guard hesitated.

“I'm sure I'd be safe with you around, those bandits wouldn't dare attack such a well defended camp,” she said demurely, delicately brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Are you the commander?” she asked him.

“Yes I am,” he said, posturing proudly. “The name's Deacon.”

“Ah, Deacon!” Imira exclaimed. “Have you been through Markham recently? I'm sure I heard someone mention you, said if you ever needed a guard to get you through the Vimmarks, talk to Deacon. Oh what was their name, it started with an S...” 

“Simon?” Deacon supplied, looking well pleased with himself.

“Yes, Simon! That was it!” Imira beamed through her tears. “What a coicidence!” Of course, she had never met this Simon, nor been to Markham, but the wagons in the camp were facing east, meaning there was a good chance they were coming from Markham, and most people knew someone with a name that started with an S. A few good assumptions and a bit of flattery, and people would fill in the blanks. 

“A good man, Simon,” he said. “You a trader then? Or Dalish...?” he asked, peering a little closer at her vallaslin.

“Ah, once I was Dalish,” Imira said. “My clan was wiped out when I was still young, been married to a farmer in Wycome twenty years now. Well, till last winter, Maker rest his soul,” she finished with a sad sigh. Barely two days out and she was already back to her old habits, this was shameful. Deacon was a willing audience to her trickery, though. It was almost flattering.

“My condolences,” he said, seeming sincere. “Well, a trader won't last too long out here on their own, not in these violent times. If you're headed East, I can see if we can't let you tag along for a few days, given your circumstances and all.”

“Oh, thank you, messere, that would let my mind rest easy,” Imira said, hardly having to fake how grateful she was. A few more sweet words, a little simpering, and a promise that she could cook well later, she had secured a spot in the caravan. They were headed to Nevarra, which was far enough east she could say she was headed to Tantervale and politely ditch them before heading to Kirkwall without raising suspicions. She hoped this would be an uneventful trip, but it never hurt to cover your tracks.


End file.
